Fairy Tale and Film

particularly given a context in the Depression when popular appeal was 
understandable, and resulting censorship would insist on an unhappy 
end for protagonists (already a feature of both films, notably). Even after 
such official restrictions have been lifted, it is interesting to note a con-
tinued aversion to glorifying gangsters and criminals. The distinction 
drawn in contemporary crime and caper movies between protagonists 
who are allowed to profit from their crimes, and those treated more 
punitively, is often quite tenuous, although a great deal hinges – much 
like the tales they revise – on the extent to which they deserve to get 
away with it. Even so, the entrepreneurial spirit that underlines ‘wealth 
through stealth’ narratives is far from simply sanctioned, with a sting 
often found in the tale. Interestingly, while heroes such as Aladdin and 
Ali Baba have attracted criticism for endorsing immorality, profiting 
through good fortune rather than hard graft or spiritual worship, the 
appeal of such narratives outweighs disapproval, and is easily discerned 
in the chutzpah displayed by these protagonists, who may take risks 
when they steal from villains, yet also achieve vast rewards. The same 
risks are set up in a number of films assessed here, yet the odds prove 
far less favourable. In 
Shallow Grave
, 
A Simple Plan
and 
No Country for 
Old Men
the temptation to steal from criminals is framed as ill-judged 

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Wealth through Stealth 
83
opportunism, ending in tragedy. Taking money that does not rightfully 
belong to the protagonists turns out to be the worst decision of their 
lives, and this has little to do with legal or religious sanctions ultimately, 
but the detrimental impact on their identity and conduct. Even in a 
relatively secular era when censorship restrictions have lessened, anti-
heroes are easy to identify with, and ideals of equality and justice seem 
somewhat hollow, there remains a tendency to question criminality and 
ask if the sacrifices made by protagonists are worthwhile.
The Godfather
(Francis Ford Coppola, 1972) is an interesting case in 
point. Adapted from the novel by Mario Puzo, it reworks the familiar 
motif of three sons who are tested by their father to see who most 
deserves to inherit his kingdom. True to tradition, the oldest two sons 
have fatal flaws, with Sonny’s hot temper and Fredo’s weakness proving 
to be their undoing, yet while the youngest son, Michael (Al Pacino), 
is affirmed as the most worthy heir to the Corleone dynasty, this is 
not without cost. Although wary of entering the family business, he 
shows remarkable loyalty to his father, and eventually takes his place 
as the head of the family, yet happiness eludes him. Over the course of 
the eventual trilogy we see him lose both his brothers (taking personal 
responsibility for Fredo’s death) as well as his two wives – the first in a 
bomb meant for himself and the second in divorce as he becomes an 
increasingly alienated and suspicious figure who is ultimately very much 
alone. The trilogy does not simply affirm a treatise on the folly of crime, 
but reminds us of the narrow distinction between organised crime and a 
world that is rife with corruption. From bent cops to a crooked judiciary, 
the ‘establishment’ is no different to the Corleone family, and in some 
ways far less endearing. Such satirical tendencies were not overlooked 
by critics, and are still more pronounced in Brian De Palma’s remake 
of 
Scarface
(1983), its acerbic pastiche of the American Dream repre-
sented by a Cuban hood, with an unnatural attachment to his sister, 
who spends his ill-gotten gains on pet tigers, a mountain of cocaine 
and a frosty wife. Ruthless self-interest and unfettered ambition propel 
him to achieve extraordinary success in a cut-throat business, yet Tony 
Montana (Pacino again) ultimately resembles the eponymous ‘King of 
the Gold Mountain’, fighting all comers to maintain his rule while left 
with nothing of worth. A maxim reprised from the original